Lie by Moonlight

by Amanda Quick

  “About time,” the enraged man began. He broke off, eyes widening, when he saw Ambrose. “What’s going on here? What do you think you’re—”

  The door closed, leaving him alone with Ambrose inside the closet.

  Concordia heard a few quiet words followed by a couple of unpleasant, muffled thuds. She winced.

  The door opened. Ambrose emerged, righting his footman’s wig. Concordia caught a brief glimpse of a crumpled form on the floor of the cupboard before the door closed again.

  “Right, then, that’s that,” Ambrose said. “Let’s be on our way. We have lost enough time as it is.”

  “You didn’t kill him, I trust,” Concordia said anxiously.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Ambrose agreed, ushering her swiftly along the hall.

  “It was not my fault.”

  “No, it was mine for allowing you to participate in this venture tonight. I should have known better.”

  “Now, Ambrose, that’s not fair. I thought I dealt with the situation very effectively.”

  “You did. That is not what concerns me.”

  “What does concern you?” she demanded.

  “The fact that he got a close look at your face and could describe you to someone else.”

  “No need to fret about that,” she assured him. “Between the poor lighting and the fact that he was quite drunk, not to mention whatever you just did to him, he will recall very little, if anything, about what took place tonight. I’m certain that he would not be able to describe me. Besides, no one remembers the maid.”

  “We will discuss the matter later. At the moment there is no time to waste.”

  He was moving so quickly that she was forced to run every other step in order to keep up with him. “How did you find me?”

  “One of the other maids working in the withdrawing room said that you had disappeared down this hall.”

  They went along a balcony that overlooked the ballroom. She heard brittle, insincere laughter and languid voices raised in inebriated conversation. She glanced down at the glittering scene. The chandeliers glowed on the ladies’ jeweled gowns and made the gentlemen look quite elegant in their black-and-white formal attire. It was a glimpse of another world, she thought, a pretty bauble of a world, indeed.

  “I regret that you were not able to enjoy your fairy tale,” Ambrose said quietly.

  “I am quite certain that nothing that is happening down there in that ballroom could be half as exciting as the adventure we are sharing. Your profession is a most interesting one, Ambrose.”

  He looked startled. Then he gave her a slow smile. “It is rarely dull.”

  “Why are we rushing like this?” she asked. “What has happened? Did you spot Trimley?”

  “Yes. He arrived with Mrs. Hoxton and has been hanging around her all evening.”

  “Excellent. But why did you come looking for me? I thought your plan was to observe him.”

  “It was. But a short time ago one of the footmen handed him a note. Whatever news it contained seemed to concern Trimley greatly. He made some excuse to Mrs. Hoxton and the others and exited very quietly out of the ballroom. I followed him and heard him call for his hat, coat and a hansom.”

  “He is leaving?”

  “Yes. But with any luck at all, it will take him a while to get a cab. The street outside is crammed with vehicles because of the crowd here tonight.”

  “I wonder why he did not request Mrs. Hoxton’s carriage.”

  “I suspect it is because he did not want her coachman to know where he is going,” Ambrose said with soft satisfaction.

  Excitement sparked inside her. “You believe that he is off to some clandestine rendezvous?”

  “Yes. There was an air of urgency about the way he made his excuses and slipped away from the ballroom.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “My intention was to leave you here while I followed him. There was something in that note that got his full attention. I want to see where he goes in response to it.”

  “I want to come with you,” she said quickly.

  “Never fear, you are most certainly leaving with me,” he said grimly. “After that unfortunate episode back there in the broom closet, I’m not about to take the chance of leaving you here alone.”

  “Now, Ambrose, you are making far too much of that small incident.”

  “Small incident? The man tried to rape you.”

  “It is not the first time I have dealt with his type. In the course of my career as an instructor of young ladies, I have been obliged to put a number of the male relatives of my students in their place. You would be amazed to learn how many so-called gentlemen do not hesitate to take advantage of a woman they perceive to be alone and without resources.”

  He glanced at her, mouth curving with reluctant admiration. “You have certainly led an adventurous life, Miss Glade.”

  “As have you, Mr. Wells.”

  They turned a corner and merged into a river of footmen carrying heavy silver platters to and from the buffet tables.

  When they arrived in the hot, smoky kitchens, a cook glowered at them.

  “And just where do you two think yer going?” she demanded, wiping sweat from her cheeks with her apron. “There’s work to be done around here.”

  “We’ll be right back,” Ambrose assured her. “Betsy needs some fresh air.”

  “Does she now? Well, she can bloody well get her fresh air after madam’s guests have all gone home.” The cook eyed the coat and cloak that Concordia carried. “Where did you get those? Did you help yourself to some of the guests’ things? Is that why you’re rushing off so quickly?”

  A fearsome crash of silver and china thundered across the kitchens. Everyone, including the annoyed cook, turned to look at the hapless footman who had just dropped his tray.

  “Look what you’ve done, you bloody fool,” the pastry cook shouted. “It took hours to prepare those lobster pies. Madam will be furious when she finds out how much food you wasted tonight. You’ll be turned off without a reference, I’ll wager.”

  “Come along,” Ambrose whispered, pulling Concordia toward the door.

  They escaped out into the gardens. Ambrose paused long enough to toss his white wig, hat and elaborately trimmed footman’s jacket behind a hedge.

  “Give me the coat,” he said. “Put on your cloak. I do not want anyone observing a footman and a maid getting into a hansom near this house.” He surveyed her briefly and then reached out to pluck the white cap from her head. “Servants do not ride in hansom cabs.”

  “Respectable ladies do not ride in them, either,” she reminded him. “At least not with men who are not their husbands. They are supposed to go about in carriages or omnibuses. The driver will no doubt assume I am very fast if I get into a hansom with you.”

  “Can’t be helped.” He turned and led the way through a maze of hedges. “Keep the hood of your cloak pulled up to shield your face. Stay close to me.”

  They went back through the gardens to the place along the back wall where they had entered two hours earlier. Concordia did not see the ladder lying on the ground until she tripped over it.

  “Careful,” Ambrose said, catching her easily. He leaned down, picked up the ladder and propped it against the brick wall. “I’ll go up first this time.”

  She followed him, struggling with the folds of her cloak and skirts, intensely aware of his impatience.

  A moment later they were both on the ground on the other side of the wall.

  “This way.” Ambrose caught her wrist and started toward the street. “Quickly. I don’t want to lose Trimley.”

  “What about the ladder?”

  “Leave it. We won’t be needing it again.”

  The street in front of the Gresham mansion was thronged with private carriages. A short distance away, lined up in a neat row alongside the park in the center of the square, Concordia could see the lights of several cabs.

  She heard a familiar whis
tle. One of the footmen was summoning a hansom. In response, the first cab in the line started toward the front of the big house.

  “That will be Trimley’s,” Ambrose said. “He is going down the steps now.”

  He led her quickly through the shadows to the row of waiting cabs and selected the hansom at the end of the line. The driver, seated on the box up behind the covered section where the passengers rode, gave Concordia a cursory glance. But he showed no great interest when she and Ambrose climbed the narrow steps and sat down in the open-fronted cab.

  Once seated, Concordia understood why Society frowned upon women riding in hansoms. There was a very dashing air about the small, two-wheeled vehicle. The single seat provided barely enough space for two people sitting quite close together. The close quarters felt extremely intimate.

  Ambrose spoke to the driver through the trapdoor. “Follow the cab that is just now leaving the house but do not let the driver notice you.”

  He shoved some notes through the opening.

  “Aye, sir.” The driver pocketed the money. “That will be no trouble at all at this hour of the night.”

  The cab rumbled forward.

  Concordia was astonished by the speed and maneuverability of the hansom. “What a wonderful way to travel. One can see everything from this vantage point. And just look at how swiftly we are moving. Very efficient. There is no reason in the world why properly bred ladies should not go about in a hansom.”

  Ambrose did not take his eyes off the cab in which Trimley was traveling. “Will you teach that notion to the young ladies in your girls’ school?”

  “Yes, I believe I will.”

  They passed a gas lamp at that moment. In the dim light Concordia could just make out the slight smile that curved the corners of Ambrose’s face.

  “Do you find my plans for a girls’ school amusing?” she asked quietly.

  “No, Concordia. I find them wonderfully bold and admirable in every respect.”

  “Oh.” She did not know what to say to that. No one had ever encouraged her in her dreams since her parents had died. It was very gratifying.

  They followed Trimley’s cab through a maze of crowded streets. Eventually the other vehicle turned another corner.

  “Damn,” Ambrose whispered. “So that is where he is going.”

  Concordia sensed the dangerous energy that was coursing through him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “He is headed toward Doncaster Baths,” he said.

  “But it is well after midnight,” she said. “Surely the baths will be closed to the public at this hour.”

  “Yes. Which makes Trimley’s destination all the more interesting.”

  A short time later Ambrose spoke to the driver. “Halt here, please.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The cab came to a stop. Concordia looked at Ambrose. “What are you planning to do?”

  “It is obvious that Trimley is going into the baths.” Ambrose removed his hat and pulled up the collar of his coat. “I suspect that someone, possibly Larkin, has arranged a meeting with him there. I am going to follow him and see what I can learn.”

  She looked around at the darkened street. Fog was starting to shroud the gas lamps. A shivery sensation sifted through her.

  “I think I should come with you,” she said.

  “Impossible. You will remain here with the driver until I return.”

  The response was flat, unequivocal. She knew him well enough by now to realize that argument was futile. There were times when she could reason with him and other times when she could not. This was one of those other times.

  “I do not like this, Ambrose. Promise me that you will be very, very careful.”

  He was already on his feet, preparing to step down to the pavement. But he paused to lean over and kiss her once, very briefly, very hard, on her mouth.

  “If I am not back here within fifteen minutes or if you grow anxious for any reason, instruct the driver to take you to number seven, Ransomheath Square. Ask for Felix Denver. Do you understand?”

  “Who is Felix Denver?”

  “An old acquaintance,” he said. “Tell him what has happened. He will help you and the girls. Do you comprehend me, Concordia?”

  “Yes. But, Ambrose—”

  He was already on the pavement.

  “Do not allow anyone to approach the lady while I am about my business,” he ordered the driver. “Is that clear? Leave immediately if someone comes close. The lady will provide you with an address in the event that I am delayed.”

  “Aye, sir.” The driver secured the reins. “Don’t worry about your lady. I’ll keep an eye on her. I know this neighborhood. It’s safe enough.”

  “Thank you,” Ambrose said.

  He moved away very swiftly.

  Concordia watched until he vanished into the shadows and fog.

  33

  Ambrose stood in the dark entranceway of a building across the street from Doncaster Baths and watched Trimley open the front door of the gentlemen’s entrance with a key.

  A personal key to the establishment was an interesting development, Ambrose thought. Did Trimley own a share of the business? Was he on very good terms with the proprietor? It was possible that the key was stolen, of course, but the familiar manner in which Trimley used it argued for the likelihood that this was not the first time he had let himself into the building after hours.

  A short time ago Trimley had abandoned his own cab around the corner in the next street. Evidently he had not wished the driver to see the precise address of his destination.

  A very careful man, Ambrose concluded. But then, a gentleman who consorted with a crime lord had to be cautious.

  In the few seconds that the door of the baths was open, Ambrose saw a small, weak beam of light. Either an attendant had left a lamp burning inside or someone else had gone into the baths ahead of Trimley. Larkin, perhaps.

  The door closed quickly behind Trimley.

  Ambrose waited a few more minutes, allowing his quarry time to settle into whatever business he intended to conduct inside the baths. Then he crossed the street and discovered that Trimley had left the door unlocked. The implication was that he did not intend to stay long.

  Ambrose slowly opened the door. The small lobby area was mostly in shadow. The dim glow he had noticed earlier came from a half-closed door that opened onto another room.

  He moved into the lobby, closed the door very softly behind him and crossed the space to the other door.

  He had come here once before in the guise of a customer at the beginning of his investigation into Nellie Taylor’s death. That visit had provided him with a good notion of the interior of the baths. The establishment had been designed by an architect who favored the dark, Gothic style. High, vaulted ceilings and deep doorways left a great deal of space for shadows.

  He eased the door of the dressing room open a little wider and studied the row of curtained booths. A single wall sconce gave off enough light to reveal the large stack of white toweling sheets on a table.

  There was no sign of Trimley, but he could hear rapid footsteps echoing on tiles somewhere deep inside the baths. A gentleman moving swiftly in evening dress shoes, he decided.

  He went through the changing room and emerged in the first hot room. The heat had been lowered hours earlier when the baths had been closed for the night, but a residual warmth persisted. A wall sconce with a frosted globe glowed dully on gleaming white tiles.

  Weaving a path between the benches and chairs that the patrons used during the day, he made his way to yet another door and eased it open.

  The gas jet on the wall in this room had been turned down very low, but he could see the dark shape of the large, square pool in the center of the space.

  Somewhere in the shadows water dripped.

  He started toward the opening on the far side of the room.

  Halfway to his goal, he saw the dark shape floating just beneath the surface of the water
in the cold pool.

  At first glance it appeared to be a gentleman’s overcoat that had been carelessly dropped into the water. Then he saw the pale, lifeless hands extending from the cuffs of the coat.

  The dead man’s sightless eyes stared up at Ambrose from the depths, oddly accusing.

  Alexander Larkin.

  A door crashed open in the adjoining pool room. The sudden explosion of sound shattered the eerie silence. Frantic footsteps pounded on tiles.

  Not the same footsteps he had heard earlier, Ambrose thought. But most certainly someone bent on escape.

  He went through the doorway into the hot plunge room in time to see the figure of a man circle the wide pool and hurtle toward the high, vaulted entrance to a darkened hall.

  Ambrose broke into a run. He was closing the distance when the panicked man abruptly skidded to a halt in the opening and flung up his hands.

  “Don’t shoot.” He started to dance backward. “Please, no, I won’t tell anyone, I swear it.”

  Ambrose stopped and then drifted toward the shadows of the curtained booths to his right. He could see the man he had been chasing more clearly now. He was thin and stooped with age and a lifetime of hard work. His cap and heavy, waterproof apron marked him as a bath attendant.

  Ambrose recognized him. The man was known in the baths as Old Henry.

  “I’m afraid that it is your extraordinarily bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time tonight,” Trimley said from the vaulted opening. “I really cannot allow you to tell the police that you saw me at the scene of Larkin’s murder, now can I?”

  He took a few steps closer to Old Henry. The lamp that marked the entrance to the hall gleamed on the revolver in his hand.

  He raised the gun.

  “Please, don’t kill me, sir,” Henry begged.

  Ambrose moved deliberately, making a small, soft sound.

  Trimley stiffened and swung quickly around, searching the shadows.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Show yourself.”

  “Let the attendant go, Trimley,” Ambrose said from a veil of darkness. “He has nothing to do with this.”

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Trimley stared hard in the direction of the curtained booths. “You’re the one who took the girls away from the castle. Have you finally decided to do business with us? We’ll make you a handsome offer for the girls. We’ll want the teacher, too, of course. Can’t let her live. She knows too much.”